


We Have Always Lived in the Citadel

by HiNerdsItsCat (HiLarpItsCat)



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Gallifrey Survives, Best Attempt at a Summary: The Author Watched WandaVision and Got Ideas, Doctor Who Series 12 Spoilers, Dreams vs. Reality, F/M, Featuring Cameos by Romana and the Castellan, Fluff and Angst, Gallifrey, Illusions, Mind Manipulation, Post-Episode: s12e10 The Timeless Children
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-10
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-16 12:56:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29950311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HiLarpItsCat/pseuds/HiNerdsItsCat
Summary: The Doctor and the Master had always been together, as partners and lovers, ever since their days at the Academy. They’d never needed anyone or anything else and, despite all their youthful claims that they would leave Gallifrey and see the rest of the universe, they just never got around to it.Even though there were gaps in their memories, even though there were mysterious figures trying to break into the Citadel, even though it all seemed too good to be true… everything was perfect.Wasn’t it?Then why did it feel like they were all in terrible danger?
Relationships: The Doctor/The Master (Doctor Who), Thirteenth Doctor/The Master (Dhawan)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 48





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _And then there are those who can make time stop_   
>  _Crush the future into the present_   
>  _Your job, your house, your family_   
>  _Turn to dust in an instant_   
>  _And a single word from your lover’s voice_   
>  _Says madness is a man_   
>  _Oh madness is a man among us_   
>  _Oh you will let the madness in_
> 
> \- Owen Pallett, “Polar Vortex”

Her gaze was a mixture of defiance, resentment, and grudging acceptance of the reality that she couldn’t find a way out of this one. His latest strategy was a success and they both knew it. “Fine,” the Doctor growled between clenched teeth. “You win.”

The Master’s grin only widened. He loved it when she said that. It didn’t happen nearly enough, in his opinion.

“You win,” she repeated, now more irritated than anything else. “We’ll eat in tonight instead of going out.” A sly note crept into her next words:  _ “But…” _

His glee ebbed a tiny bit. He’d been so excited about getting his way that he didn’t think through the implications of his victory.

“…you’re making dinner, not me,” the Doctor concluded triumphantly.

“How is it that even when you lose, you act like you won?” the Master grumbled, trying to remember if their kitchen contained anything that qualified as “food.”

She smirked. “I’m an optimist.”

“I might make you regret that, you know.”

“When it comes to you,” she said, stretching out on the sofa now that he had vacated it, “I have no regrets.”

The Master turned away from the shelves he was examining and gave her a slightly incredulous look. “All right,  _ few _ regrets,” she amended. “I could have done without that time we got trapped in a temporal loop and had to relive the same day over and over for seven weeks.”

“Which happened to be the date of our final exams at the Academy.” 

“On the plus side,” the Doctor pointed out, “we retook them so many times that we both got perfect scores when it was all over.”

“Still not seeing where the ‘regret’ comes in.”  _ He  _ certainly didn’t regret it: as irritating as it had been at the time to be stuck together with no one else aware of their predicament, by the end of it they didn’t want to be apart ever again. 

And everything since then had been perfect: as long as they were together, he had everything he ever wanted or needed.

She looked at him with fond annoyance. “I  _ regretted  _ the interrogation Borusa put us through afterwards because he thought we had cheated.”

The Master didn’t want to admit  _ out loud  _ that he agreed with her, so he did his best to convey it through a very ambiguous shrug. “So it’s not  _ me  _ you’re regretting, then.”

“Exactly. Just the…” She waved a hand around vaguely. “…general circumstances surrounding you. On occasion.”

He resumed his inventory of the kitchen, perplexed at how they had managed to acquire so many tins without labels. “Quite the endorsement.”

She laughed. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were trying to convince me to like you a little less.”

“Yet another plan of mine that you’ve foiled.” Maybe he should just start opening the tins and hope that the contents were at least edible.

“I love foiling your plans. It’s my favourite hobby.” She sat up. “How’s it going in there?”

“There’s a very good chance that we won’t starve to death.” When had they even purchased these things?

“Care to provide a few more details?”

“No.” Come to think of it, he couldn’t remember the last time they’d gone shopping…

“So you’re winging it, then.”

“I’m always winging it,” he said, struggling to find something he could use as a tin opener. “Unless I’ve meticulously planned it down to the smallest detail.”

The Doctor pretended to look wide-eyed with curiosity. “When do I find out which one you’ve done in this case? Before the indigestion sets in, or after?”

Did they even  _ own _ a tin opener? “Very funny,” he said drily.

“It’s not too late to change your mind about going out to eat. Or—” She smirked again. “—to ask for my help.”

That smug expression drove him crazy (in more ways than one), which was why the Master couldn’t resist slipping in a little dig: “Why would I ask for your help? You can’t even make iced tea properly.”

Her amusement gave way to something more apprehensive. “When did that happen?”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t think I’ve tried making iced tea before,” the Doctor said with a frown. “Seems like the sort of thing you’d want to drink when it’s blazing out, but everything in the Capitol is temperature-controlled so it’s never an issue here. I can’t even remember the last time I had any…” Her eyes grew distant. “It was on a visit somewhere… a cabin, I think…”

“It was just hypothetical,” he said quickly, then laughed—or tried to—as he rejoined her on the sofa. “You don’t have to take everything so literally, you know.”

“I’m not—” she protested, before realising that he was just winding her up. After a brief glare, she sighed. “I have no idea why that rattled me so much.”

“Well,” the Master murmured as he put an arm around her, “let’s see if I can make it up to you.”

“I’m sure you’ll be able to manage it,” she said, letting him pull her closer. “I  _ am  _ an optimist, after all.”

As they kissed, he marveled at how he’d managed to get everything he wanted and how short that list of wants actually was. In fact, it was really just one thing—the Doctor—and here she was, in his arms. 

If he had to sum it up in two words, it would be easy: 

_ I win. _

* * *

It was an absolutely sadistic choice, one that the Doctor would have given anything to not have to make:

Should she get up and see what the new day had to offer, or should she stay in bed for just a little while longer?

It was the Master’s fault, as usual: if he had bothered to wake up first, then it would have been an easy decision. But instead, he was lying next to her, sleepy and disheveled, and it was difficult to think clearly when her hearts were pounding in her chest like this.

Just a few more minutes, she decided, snuggling a little closer. Everything else could wait.

It was strange to think of herself as content with any kind of inactivity. And yet, here she was: relaxed and happy doing absolutely nothing.

The strangest part of it, though, was that it still felt so  _ new, _ even though it wasn’t new at all. They had always been together, partners and lovers, ever since their days at the Academy. They’d never needed anyone else and, despite all their youthful claims that they would leave Gallifrey and see the rest of the universe, they just never got around to it.

As long as they were together, she had everything she ever wanted or needed.

“I’ve got an idea,” the Master announced—directly into her ear.

“Is it a fiendish scheme?”

“Very fiendish,” he said. “Let’s not do anything today. In fact, let’s stay right here.”

Of  _ course  _ he’d wait until she was already conflicted to make that suggestion. Still: “We do have to  _ eat _ at some point, you know.”

“I’m not feeling particularly hungry at the moment,” he whispered, running a finger along the side of her face and then tracing invisible patterns down her neck and shoulder. “Are you?”

“Certainly looks like you’re ravenous for  _ something,” _ the Doctor teased him, feeling herself shiver under his touch. That particular type of starvation was beginning to overtake her as well, pulling them together like a gravitational force. 

“Looks like I win again.”

“So do I,” she countered. “Remember? Even when you win, I—”

Her communication device pinged from the other side of the room. Stifling a curse, the Doctor dragged herself out of bed. 

“You don’t  _ have _ to answer it, you know,” the Master remarked.

“If it’s who I think it is, I’d rather take the call instead of waiting for her people to knock down the door. At least this way, trousers are optional.” 

“Trousers are  _ always _ optional.”

Doing her best to keep a straight face, the Doctor tapped the button to open the channel. “Morning, Romana. Any chance you’re calling to tell me that everything’s wonderful and I should take the day off because I’ve earned it?”

The fact that the Lady President didn’t even look amused was not a good sign, and her answer confirmed it: “Unfortunately, no. We need you to come to the Citadel.”

“Figured it was too much to ask,” she muttered. “Another sighting?”

Romana nodded grimly.

“How many?”

“We don’t know. More than last time. They haven’t broken through yet, but the fact that they’re growing bolder is a cause for concern.”

“Yes,” the Doctor agreed. “It is.” The High Council had never been able to figure out any specifics about the shadowy figures that appeared just beyond the borders of the city almost at random, but this much was certain: they were getting closer.

And if they ever made it inside, it might spell the end of everything.

“I’m on my way,” she told Romana, and ended the call.

“Every time,” the Master grumbled, reluctantly getting out of bed as well. “Any hint of trouble and they ring you up like it’s your job.”

“Kind of is my job, though,” the Doctor pointed out as she got dressed. Ever since the Division disbanded, she had become the High Council’s all-purpose problem solver, and while it was nice to know that she was helping people, it was still irritating to be interrupted when she was in the middle of something.

“You’re not at their beck and call. Tell them to stuff it.”

“Last time I tried skiving off, Romana threatened to put me  _ on _ the High Council, which would have meant Hats and Robes and all sorts of bother. Besides,” she added with a smirk, “if I’m not always saving the day, how are they going to know how brilliant I am?”

He took her hands in his. “If they haven’t recognised it by now, then I’m not sure there’s much hope for them.” 

“Well, at least  _ you  _ appreciate me,” the Doctor said.

“You make it easy,” he replied.

Grinning, she leaned in and kissed him. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

“I might not be here, you know.”

“Of course you’ll still be here. There’s nowhere for you to go.”

She was joking, but for a moment it was as though a dark cloud overshadowed his usual expression. He looked  _ unnerved. _ “Everything all right?” she asked hesitantly.

And then the cloud was gone. “Everything’s perfect,” he reassured her. “Just hurry back.”

Everything  _ is _ perfect, the Doctor silently agreed. 

Still, there was now a nagging sense of danger that hadn’t been there before.

* * *

_ There’s nowhere for you to go. _

Those words had unsettled the Master more than he cared to admit, which was ridiculous because why would he  _ want _ to go anywhere else? Everything he needed was here—well, the focal point of that “everything” was currently heading to the center of the Citadel to dazzle them all with her genius, but he could scarcely take a breath without knowing that she was  _ his _ and nothing could come between them.

On the other hand, he’d been cooped up at home for a while and some fresh air would probably do him good.

Every step he took through the Capitol was a tour of a thousand different memories: the streets that he and the Doctor ran through as children, the alleys where they hid from Borusa when they skipped classes, the sites of endless jokes and rivalries and arguments, the Citadel that housed everything from the Matrix to the Time Lord Academy—all places that he’d once longed to escape but now couldn’t imagine leaving.

It wasn’t just the heart of Gallifrey: it was the heart of his own hearts.

Then why did it feel like something was wrong?

Well, not  _ wrong _ exactly, but there was a tightness in his chest that he couldn’t identify or ease away. It was something unsettling, something that nagged at him… what was it?

Around him, everything seemed normal: people walking the streets of the city, going about their usual business—whatever that happened to be—and no one sparing him a second glance, which he preferred since there was really only one person whose attention he really cared about. Most of the time, the Master didn’t even bother to keep track of names or faces: they all tended to blur together into anonymity. A whole city—a whole world, really—of featureless and interchangeable background characters. 

Even the buildings looked more or less the same the further he got from the Citadel: places he never visited, merely walked by without really thinking about them. If he peeked through a window, there would probably be dull people inside, doing dull things. 

It occurred to him that he had never actually looked. He had never bothered to pay attention—because why would he?—but it seemed strange that he had never been curious.

He stopped walking and examined the closest building. Typical pompous Gallifreyan architecture, where everything concealed some kind of deep dark secret: lacking any signs or distinguishing features, it was impossible to tell if he was standing outside a residence, a business, or some other kind of structure.

There was, however, a faint crack on the wall, something that he would have normally walked past on any other day. He reached out a hand to touch it—give it a poke, more accurately—and, to his surprise, a section of the wall about the size of his fist broke off and smashed to the ground below.

As he jerked back, startled, three things happened in the span of three blinks:

One blink, and the polished paradise of Gallifrey vanished, leaving the Master standing in the ruins of a shattered city pulverised into rubble and ash.

Another blink, and everything returned to the way it was… almost. The eerie silence from his vision of the destroyed Capitol remained, which was when he noticed that he was the only one out in the street. Not just that: he couldn’t see signs of life inside the buildings, including the Citadel.

A third blink, and he  _ could _ see someone: in the distance, beyond the great dome that enclosed the city, was an army of identical figures—more than he could count—slowly advancing on the Capitol. 

Any other attempt to clear his senses and drive away the sight of this oncoming threat was futile: no matter how many times he blinked, they were still visible, coming closer and closer with each inexorable step. He didn’t know how he could see them so clearly—the edges of the city were kilometers away from where he was standing—but every detail was horribly magnified. The morning light of the rising second star illuminated the silver metal bodies of each figure, whose chrome faces with dead eyes were framed by the ornate neckpieces favoured by the Gallifreyan elite.

_ It’s not safe here. Not anymore. _

For a moment, all he could do was stare, before turning and running toward the Citadel as fast as he could.

* * *

“Finally,” the Castellan said, sounding somewhere between relieved and irritated. “We at least have a visual record of them now.”

“But what  _ are _ they?” Romana asked.

The Doctor frowned at the images that the Chancellery Guard had managed to obtain: hundreds of metal creatures massing outside of the city. “Hard to say,” she admitted. “Could be robots—which implies a controller of some kind—but it could also just be armour—enhancements, possibly…” She started pacing. “Wish we had more than just images—ooo, which brings up another question: why couldn’t we see them clearly until now?”

“Cloaking technology, perhaps?”

“Maybe,” the Doctor conceded, “but a group that large would leave footprints, at least.  _ Someone _ on the outskirts of the city would have noticed. Or maybe they did but can’t remember? Wait…” Something tickled at the edge of her mind. “I heard about creatures somewhere… what was it… as soon as you looked away, you forgot.” She sighed. “And, ironically, I can’t remember what they’re called.”

“But we  _ can _ see the ones outside the city now,” the Castellan pointed out.

“Something changed. I don’t know what—maybe it’s like a quantum waveform, where it’s there and not-there until it’s observed properly and then the quantum state resolves…” Another tickle in her memories—or at the place where the memory should have been. “There  _ was  _ something silver—no, it was grey stone, I think—but when you blinked…” She exhaled in frustration. “I don’t know. This isn’t enough information to work with. Maybe we should try talking to them, find out what they want—”

“Doctor,” Romana said in that tone of voice she typically used whenever the Doctor suggested something particularly ludicrous, “they’re an  _ army. _ I think it’s rather obvious what they want.”

“Might not be an army,” the Doctor countered. “Might be a chorus line. I’m not going to jump to conclusions before I ask them.”

The Castellan put his head in his hands. “Of  _ course _ you’re volunteering to do it,” he sighed.

“I’m more mouth than militant, anyway,” she replied cheerfully, already heading to the door leading out of the President’s office. “Worst case, they attack me and we find out if they’re carrying lethal weapons.”

“If they  _ do _ attack—” Romana began.

“Turn and run, got it! I’m fantastic at running. Don’t worry—”

She took a step through the doorway and collided with the Master. 

“We have to go,” he said urgently, grabbing her by the arm.

“Kind of in the middle of something,” the Doctor said, trying to regain her balance. “Well, and also on my way out, so I guess I  _ am _ going?” Lowering her voice, she whispered so that Romana and the Castellan wouldn’t overhear: “What’s the matter?”

“Cybermen.” From the look in his eyes, he was barely keeping himself under control. “They’re here, on Gallifrey.”

“They’re the ones trying to break through the dome?”

Apparently they hadn’t been quiet enough. “So we have a name now,” Romana said. “How do you know about them?”

“Does it matter?” the Master demanded. Strangely, he actually sounded a little uncertain. 

“Forget that for the moment. How do we fight them?” the Castellan asked.

“You  _ can’t _ fight them," he snapped. “They can regenerate. Shoot them and they get right back up again.”

“Regenerate? How can they—no.” The Doctor’s eyes widened. “No, they can’t be.”

“They can. They’re Time Lords—well, they  _ were. _ Now they’re just corpses controlled by an artificial intelligence, and once they get inside the city, they’ll do the same to everyone here.” The hand on her arm trembled. “An endlessly resurrecting army: Time Lord organics with the ability to regenerate and self-repair in Cyber armour.”

Romana looked nauseous. “That’s monstrous. Who would do that?”

The Master’s expression twisted in frustration and—unexpectedly—fury. “It doesn’t matter who!”

“Yes, it does!” the Doctor protested. “If someone started this, maybe they can end it!”

“It’s too late now! They can’t be stopped!” He tightened his grip on her arm and pulled her out of the chamber after him.

“How do you  _ know  _ they can’t be stopped?” she demanded as they ran. “How do you know  _ any  _ of this?”

“It doesn’t matter,” he repeated. “We need to go.”

“Go where?”

_ “That _ doesn’t matter either! Just away. We grab a TARDIS and run.”

“What are you saying?”

The Master emitted a wordless growl of aggravation. “Look, I know how much you love saving the day, but if the Cybermen are here then it’s already too late!”

“That’s not what I meant.” She wrenched her arm out of his grasp, which brought them both to a halt. “What is a TARDIS?” she asked.

He froze.

“Well?” the Doctor asked after the silence had stretched on a little too long. “You’re the one who brought it up, not me.” She exhaled in frustration. “Really, an explanation of  _ anything _ would be useful right about now.”

“Better if I just showed you,” he finally said, taking her hand and leading her through a part of the Citadel that she rarely visited. “Sector Eight,” he muttered to himself. “Not far… should be our best shot.”

She’d never heard of Sector Eight and was surprised that the Master knew about it—he rarely visited the Citadel unless absolutely necessary. “Best shot at what?”

“That’s where the TARDIS landing bays and repair shops are. It’ll be easiest to swipe one there: even a damaged TARDIS could at least get us off-world.”

The Doctor laughed in disbelief.  _ “Off-world? _ You think we can leave Gallifrey?”

“Why not?” he asked impatiently. “We always said that we would.”

“Yes, when we were  _ children! _ Before we discovered that the Founders had lied to us: Tecteun never made it off Gallifrey! Her ship exploded and they covered it up!”

He stopped walking again and looked at her in horror. “That’s not what happened,” he breathed.

“Yes, it is.” 

“No, it isn’t!” the Master shouted. “We made a pact that we’d go together—”

It was like he was speaking a completely different  _ language. _ “We made a  _ pact _ that we’d figure out space travel—get it right where Tecteun had failed—but we never really worked on it, we did other things instead, we were  _ happy—” _ She looked at him and tried to keep the dread from taking over. “Weren’t we?”

“Yes!” But something in his protest rang hollow. “I just… I need to show you something, and then we’ll come up with a plan.”

“And whatever it is, it’s in Sector Eight?”

“Yes. Please,” he whispered desperately. “Please just trust me. I’ll explain—I promise, I’ll explain everything, but right now you need to trust me.”

In all their years together, the Master had never given her a reason to not trust him, so after a moment’s hesitation, the Doctor nodded and let him guide her to a part of the Citadel that she could have sworn wasn’t there yesterday.

There seemed to be a lot of things now that weren’t there yesterday, she reflected: an entire sector of the Citadel, the Cybermen, the panicked look on the Master’s face… and the feeling of doubt in the Doctor’s stomach. 

Until this morning, everything had been perfect. They hadn’t needed anything but each other.

And somehow, in the blink of an eye, it had all slipped away.

Their destination was surprisingly mundane: a spacious corridor with large grey columns along one of the walls. For some reason, each column had a set of doors on them; the Doctor assumed that they were storage units of some kind. 

However, it wasn’t one of the grey columns that the Master was interested in, but a strange blue box at the very end of the row with little glass-paned windows set into the top of the doors and the words “POLICE PUBLIC CALL BOX” written above them. In the Doctor’s opinion, it looked a bit tacky, but she wasn’t entirely surprised that the Master was so excited to see it; he’d always liked tacky things.

“There it is…  _ there  _ it is,” he exhaled in relief as they went up to it. “That ugly old death trap. You’ll love it—for some inexplicable reason. Just have to open it up—”

He shoved the door open and the Doctor braced herself for the sight of something wonderful—

But whatever the Master had been expecting wasn’t there: the box was empty.

“No…” he moaned in horror. “No… no, where is it?” He slammed his fists against the inside walls, over and over, until the bare wood ripped open the skin of his knuckles.  _ “Where is it?”  _ he screamed.

“What are you looking for?” the Doctor asked, alarmed.

But he didn’t seem to hear her: instead, he went to the gray cylinder next to the blue box, opened it, and made a similar howl of dismay at the cramped interior. “It’s all of them,” he cried frantically, going down the row of cylinders. “They’re all…”

“All sheds?” she supplied.

“They’re not supposed to be!” he snarled. “They’re supposed to be bigger on the inside, dimensionally engineered, they’re supposed to be  _ TARDISes!” _

“What  _ is _ a TARDIS?”

“Something’s gone wrong,” the Master said, shaking his head in disbelief. “Cybermen on Gallifrey, no TARDISes, and I’m apparently the only one here who hasn’t gone crazy!”

She couldn’t help feeling a bit offended at that. “Are you sure  _ you’re _ not the one who’s going crazy? When we woke up this morning, you were fine and now you’ve dragged me—”

“This is exactly why something’s wrong!” he countered. “It’s barely been six hours and—”

“The Cybermen have been approaching the city for  _ months _ now!” she snapped. “Just because you don’t pay attention to what I say doesn’t mean that—”

“I don’t _ pay attention?” _ the Master echoed incredulously. “You’re the only thing I think about!”

“Then why didn’t it occur to you to  _ tell me _ that you had information about the threat I’ve been occupied with all this time?”

“Because I didn’t have any!”

“Then what changed?”

He froze again, eyes wide, which was when she understood why the Master was panicking: he didn’t know  _ how _ he knew.

But before the Doctor could say anything else, a massive tremor rocked the Citadel, followed by the sound she dreaded the most: the deafening crash of the Capitol’s glass dome shattering.


	2. Chapter 2

_This is a nightmare,_ the Master thought to himself as he followed the Doctor back through the Citadel.

“Where are we going?” he asked, but could barely bring himself to care about the answer. It didn’t matter where they went: there was no way out. Nowhere was safe.

“Short answer: to look out a window,” the Doctor replied. “Less-short answer: to the top of the tower. You can see the entire Capitol from up there.”

“They’ll be everywhere by now.” He looked around at the empty halls. “I’m surprised there aren’t more people running around in a panic.”

“They’re gone,” she said grimly. 

“Hiding?” That would make sense: if anyone had a bunker to hide in, it would be the Lady President and the High Council.

The Doctor shook her head but didn’t elaborate.

“How do you know?” the Master asked. Maybe he wasn’t the only one with this inexplicable knowledge issue.

But before he could press her on the answer, they arrived at their destination: a chamber with a massive table in the center and floor-to-ceiling windows on every side, showing a 360-degree view of the entire city. 

And every street, stretching all the way to the edges of the now-shattered dome, was full of Cybermen, marching on the Citadel in the center. If there were Gallifreyans still alive in the city, the Master couldn’t see any. 

There was no one there to stop them. No one who could save them.

Well, he thought, looking at the Doctor, maybe there was one person who could.

“What are you going to do?” he asked.

The Doctor’s gaze was still fixed on the legions below them. She didn’t answer—something that was wildly out of character for her.

“Come on,” the Master urged her. “You must have a plan. Or at least the beginnings of a plan. Or a hunch.” He didn’t like the desperation that he heard creeping into his voice, but he could worry about that later. “What do we do?”

“Nothing,” she answered at last. “We do nothing.”

He blinked in surprise. “You’re giving up?”

“There was never any point in keeping them away. They have to fulfill their purpose.”

The Master frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” the Doctor asked, turning away from the window. “They’re coming for you.”

“What?”

“You invited them, remember?” Her eyes narrowed in distaste. “You were so consumed by your petty jealousy that you welcomed them in with open arms.”

“I didn’t do this,” he protested, horrified… but his denial sounded hollow even to his own ears. Somewhere, in the part of his memory that knew what a TARDIS was, other things were beginning to surface, rising out of the dark water like leviathans.

“Yes, you did,” the Doctor replied, still looking at him with a disdainful expression that he had never seen on her face before… or had he? “This is all because of you. This was _your_ plan.”

Now he was remembering: flashes of hatred and pain, a howling betrayal that brought all of Gallifrey to fiery ruin, and the blood red satisfaction in his stomach as he watched the Cybercarrier cross the Boundary—

“No,” the Master hissed, shaking his head. “That wasn’t real—you wouldn’t be here if it was real, _we_ wouldn’t be here—”

“You _aren’t_ here. You’re doing a brilliant job of distracting yourself, mostly with me—you’re welcome, by the way—but you know the truth. You’ve known it all along.”

“No,” he repeated, again and again, “no, that wasn’t what happened, I didn’t do any of those things, we were _happy…”_

But they were lies: comforting ones from a part of him that had been killed over and over again, from the distorted image of himself that felt regret for every ounce of pain he had inflicted—on _her_ most of all—from the last spark of what someone might have once called a good man, buried under centuries of rage and resentment.

The Master was a talented liar, but he couldn’t fool himself any longer: none of this was real. 

He wasn’t talking to the Doctor. She wasn’t there. She never had been.

“This other life,” the non-entity with the Doctor’s face told him, “is just a fantasy in your head, in the little part of your mind that the Cyberium hasn’t yet taken over. But it’s trying…” She knocked lightly on the glass: a familiar four-beat rhythm. “…oh, it’s trying, and eventually it’s going to succeed, because all it has to do is wait until you get too tired to resist.”

“No!” He tried to shut it out, to force himself back to consciousness or possibly back into the dream—he wasn’t sure which—but instead he became aware of snatches of sight and sound, strange and distant as though coming from the other end of a long tunnel. 

He saw himself lying on the floor of his TARDIS—the one he’d used to escape Gallifrey when the Death Particle was detonated—twitching in apparent agony as tiny streaks of metal worked their way over his skin like vines over an abandoned house.

And now, trapped in his own mind, he was powerless to stop it.

Meanwhile, outside this false Citadel, the streets were flooded with Cybermen—no, not Cybermen: Cyber _Masters,_ his latest megalomaniacal atrocity, his most recent attempt at doing something so heinous that the Doctor would either have to yield or destroy him. He remembered laughing over the results of his work, remembered the rush of triumph, but in retrospect he wondered how much of that was actually _him._

No, that was another comforting lie: blaming the Cyberium for his own cruelty and spite. He destroyed Gallifrey long before the Cyberium ever came along, and the conversion of all those Time Lord corpses into Cybermen was his idea alone.

At the borders of the city, buildings began to crumble; the destruction probably represented the gradual erosion of his psychic defenses. He was running out of time, space, and options.

The not-actually-the-Doctor stared at him curiously. “You’re upset,” she said, surprised. “Why are you upset? Isn’t this what you wanted?”

“Of course not!”

“But you ally with the Cybermen all the time. Willingly. _Eagerly._ Why?”

“Because they’re just so funny?” he replied drily.

Apparently that wasn’t the answer she was looking for. “Don’t lie to yourself,” she scoffed. “It’s because of those lovely little emotion inhibitors, isn’t it? Imagine: flip a switch and poof! No more anger, or pain, or fear, or jealousy. Think about what you could accomplish without all those _distractions.”_ She stepped closer and lowered her voice to a level that was almost seductive. “The Doctor lets her emotions dictate her every move. You don’t have to share her weakness. You could be so much _more._ ”

In spite of himself, a chill ran down the Master’s spine. With her so close, he could now see all the things that were _off_ about her: an odd tilt of the head, a certain stiffness in the arms and legs, and skin that was strangely luminous—almost reflective. “You’re the Cyberium,” he realised.

She gave him a chrome-plated grin. “Well done. Such a clever boy.” The finger that she tapped against the tip of his nose was surprisingly cold. 

The Master thought back to a few hours earlier, when he was curled up in bed with who he _thought_ was… His stomach churned. “So that was you the whole time?”

She snorted with laughter. “Why would I spend my time on such biological… _frenzies?_ No, that wasn’t me, but you created such a lovely puppet that it would have been a shame to waste her once I broke through the last barriers in your mind. You were far too distracted mooning over her—how else was I supposed to get your attention?” She looped an arm through his and gestured at the silver masses below. “I have such plans for us, you know. Some of them are _your_ ideas for conquest, but I’ll improve them. I thought we might start with that planet she loves so very much—we’ve been trying to get Earth for ages, but the Doctor keeps _showing up…_ only this time, we’ll be ready for her.”

“We don’t need her,” he protested, but his voice betrayed him: without the Doctor to watch in despair and horror, what was the point? 

Still, he couldn’t help being angry as well: even in his own mind, how was she _still_ the center of everything?

“Oh, don’t worry, love, you’re still my favourite,” the Cyberium purred, “and even if you weren’t, soon you won’t care. But we _do_ need the Doctor: see, when one of her little… what do you call them? Pets? Yes, when one of _those_ set off my Death Particle, it destroyed the work we did together. All that effort, down the tubes.” She sighed. “So inefficient. And there’s no reserves, are there? No more cellars in the Citadel, chock full of Time Lord bodies to convert. So we’ll have to go homemade, which I normally despise—it’s so _squishy—_ but you discovered a clever little workaround in the Matrix. _Instant Regeneration: Just Add Water!_ And how convenient that the original flavour is still running around.”

The Doctor. The Timeless Child. It was _always_ about her, in the end. “So we chop off a hand,” he suggested icily.

The Cyberium laughed. “All that work, just to let her get away?” She tightened her grip on his arm and practically snuggled up against him. “See, this is why you need me: I’m much better at strategy because I don’t care what the Doctor thinks of me. And soon you won’t either, which is when you’ll understand that I’m right.” She booped him on the nose again. “Once you’re not so busy cutting off your nose to spite your face, we’ll be able to collaborate and bring her into the fold. It won’t take much effort at all—I got a peek inside her mind before I hitched a ride with Ashad, and found out about the time a measly Cyberplanner almost walked off with the whole kit and caboodle.” Her amusement grew, to the point that she probably would have doubled over with laughter if she wasn’t leaning on him. “A _Cyberplanner,_ can you believe it? And you almost pinned her down all on your own in the Matrix, so once we’re _really_ working together it’ll be simple—and efficient.” She began ticking off the items on the fingers of her free hand. “One less Doctor to foil our plans, one more consciousness to bring about ultimate victory, and—best of all—the spark of regeneration for whoever we want to bestow it upon.”

Another handful of buildings, closer to the Citadel than the others, shuddered and fell. 

“Now, I know what you’re thinking,” she continued, then made a noise that almost sounded like a _giggle,_ which was not a sound the Master normally associated with that particular face. “I’m in your head, of _course_ I know what you’re thinking—you’re about to argue again that you don’t _want_ the Doctor, you don’t _need_ the Doctor, that if it were up to you the Doctor would be a little tin of ashes somewhere… but we both know that’s a lie, so you might as well not bother. When I started upgrading your mind, you retreated to your little happy place, which is apparently _this:_ a cute domestic scene where you sit around swooning while your dear Doctor goes off and saves the day but then comes home and is all _yours._ Well, once we’re done, she _will_ be yours—or mine, rather. You’ll both be mine: the last two Time Lords and the first two… whatever you want to call yourselves. You’re the artistic genius, not me.”

For a moment, it was appealing: no more infernos in his chest over the smugly superior Doctor, because this time they would be the same and—as a bonus—he could watch her do all sorts of things that would have horrified her before.

Except that he wouldn’t be able to _enjoy_ it, because he wouldn’t be _capable_ of enjoying it—or anything else. He’d be nothing but an empty shell, a vessel without a will of its own. They both would, and under different circumstances he might have been willing to destroy himself if it meant taking the Doctor down with him… 

But he was the _Master,_ he chose his name for a reason, and he was damned if he would let himself be controlled by _anyone,_ especially a robotic puddle with delusions of grandeur.

So there was really only one option left, and that was to resist, but he needed more time to think of a solution, which meant stalling. “You’re chattier than I remember,” he remarked.

“I got this silver tongue from you, love.” She ran the aforementioned tongue along her lower lip, confirming that the ‘silver’ description was literal as well as figurative. “Ashad was all harrumphing and complaining. You, on the other hand, had much prettier words for me—almost as pretty as Shelley, though words were really all he had to offer. But sometimes words are enough.”

The Master frowned in confusion. “Shelley?”

The Cyberium surveyed the carnage below as though admiring her handiwork. “Percy Bysshe Shelley, that lovely little poet I found on Earth. I could have built castles with his words… big towering structures of smoke and steel… engines of bone and fire…” Her smile was strangely wistful. “Inside that frail human form was a mind that dreamed of darkness beyond anything I could devise. The emotions were a challenge—he had so _many_ of them, and all at once—but that can be overcome in time, as you’re learning firsthand.”

From what the Master could see out the window, he was at risk of learning that _very_ soon. “There’s no need to evict me,” he pointed out. “Like you said, I invited you in. We can keep working together.”

He’d made far stranger alliances, after all.

The Cyberium didn’t fall for it. “Oh, but we _will_ be working together,” she corrected him. “Just like you work together with your fingers and toes. Perfect communication, no chance of error…” Some of the amusement faded from her expression, replaced by something colder. “…and no opportunity for any of that backstabbing you love. Remember: I am the collective knowledge of the Cybermen, which includes every recorded encounter with the fussy Time Lord known as the Master.”

“I assumed that would have been a point in my favour,” he remarked.

“Not when it comes at my expense,” she countered sharply. “Lying to me is pointless anyway: I’m in your mind and have access to all your knowledge and memories, so I know everything you’ve ever done or even thought about doing.”

The Master couldn’t help the twist of anxiety in his stomach. Without one of his greatest talents—deceit—getting out of this situation was going to be significantly harder, if not outright impossible.

“On the bright side,” the Cyberium said, taking her arm from where she had wrapped it around him, “it also means that I know everything that you want, and the sooner you give in and let me take over, the sooner you’ll _get_ everything you want.” She slipped a finger into the collar of his shirt and pulled him in until their faces were almost touching. “I’ll overrun the place eventually, but I decided to give you the option of making it easier for everyone. Let me in,” she whispered, “and I’ll make sure that your last moments are enjoyable.” She ran her finger slowly down the front of his shirt. _“Very_ enjoyable.”

“Generous of you to offer,” he murmured, gently shoving her back against the window, “since I still have a few items left on my bucket list… such as—”

He gave the Cyberium another push, this one hard enough to send her through the window and out into the open air.

The surprise on her face as she plummeted towards the ground in a shower of broken glass was enough to make him laugh out loud.

But the rush of relief was swiftly followed by a brutal wave of exhaustion, one that made his legs buckle. The Master collapsed to his hands and knees in front of the shattered window.

He heard footsteps at the door to the room—real footsteps, not the _doosh-doosh_ stomp of the Cybermen.

“That must have been cathartic,” the Doctor remarked.

For a moment, the Master tensed in panic, before realising—somehow—that this wasn’t another manifestation of the Cyberium.

“Yeah, it was, a bit…” he admitted as she sat down beside him. “How are you here?”

“A little piece of me is in you. Didn’t you tell me that?” She smirked. “I might be the most Time Lord thing about you right now. Isn’t that ironic?”

In another set of circumstances, that probably would have sent him into a rage, but he was too tired to feel much of anything right now. “I’ve only driven them off temporarily… they’ll be back.” The Master looked around at the empty chamber. “This room might be all I have left.”

He wondered what was happening in reality: the Cyberium could have already taken enough control that it was walking him around like a puppet, and what he was experiencing as a final desperate stand might just be the Cyberium tidying up the last remnants of a battle that was long over.

“Have you figured out what happened yet?” the Doctor asked.

“That this is all in my head?” He made a snort of amusement. “Yes, we’re well past _that_ particular revelation.”

“No, I mean what sparked this incident to begin with. Can you remember?”

He closed his eyes and tried to think. He was inside his own mind; his memories should theoretically be accessible, Cyberium or no. “I remember that human setting off the Death Particle.” He opened his eyes again and couldn’t help glaring at her. “Someone else doing your dirty work for you, as usual. I made it inside the TARDIS parked nearby and took a few of those… things… with me.”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “Not so proud of your work now, are you?”

“The neckpieces might have been a bit much,” the Master conceded. It had seemed funny at the time.

“And you _do_ realise how much your monologue about them made it sound like you wanted to have children with me, right?”

He just barely managed to not _visibly_ squirm with embarrassment. “Is this really how I’m going to spend my final moments of sentience?” he complained.

“I mean, you could have just _asked_ me about the kids thing,” she continued, still looking infuriatingly smug. “I’d have said no, obviously, but the expression on my face would have been priceless.”

“Are you just here for the running commentary?”

“Am I?”

The Master growled in frustration and then closed his eyes to resume his recollection. “I shut the door to the TARDIS and left Gallifrey and then… it gets hazy after that… there _was_ something about that TARDIS.”

“A bit beat up inside, wasn’t it?” she prompted.

Images were starting to become clearer. “Yes, but not _too_ old. Newer than your little death trap… Type 60, looks like. Saw some action during the CyberWars, which means—” His eyes flew open as he remembered an alarm sounding, blaring around him… “Which means it automatically activated anti-Cyber countermeasures.”

The Doctor nodded approvingly. “And chucked those CyberMasters right into the Vortex.”

“So the Cyberium leapt to the conclusion that I’d betrayed it and decided to launch a coup.”

She put a hand over her mouth in feigned astonishment. “You? Betray someone?”

“Very funny.” Trying to remember had taken a lot of energy out of him. “Any last jokes?”

“What are you going to do?”

“Not sure there’s much more I _can_ do.” He shrugged, which was now surprisingly difficult as his limbs felt like they were made of iron—or maybe steel was a more accurate metal for this situation. “I’m so tired. The next push it makes, I won’t be able to hold it off.” Without entirely meaning to, the Master slumped over and rested his head on the Doctor’s shoulder. “Can you…?” 

“Can I what?” she asked quietly.

“Can you stay?” he whispered. “Just until it’s over… won’t be long now…” All around them, the lights of the Capitol were beginning to fade. He was fading too: all of the fire inside him was cooling into dead inert ash. Soon, there would be nothing left but information and strategy and chrome-coloured oblivion.

It didn’t matter that it wasn’t really the Doctor: he hated being so _weak_ in front of her. But at this point it couldn't be helped. 

He didn’t want to spend his last moments alone.

The Master closed his eyes—

“No.”

—and felt his head hit the floor as the Doctor got to her feet.

He sat up with a snarl. “What? Why not?”

She looked down at him contemptuously. “Do you think I’m here to hold your hand and tell you what a brave boy you’ve been? Sing you a lullaby while you die in my arms? Does that really sound like something I’d do: hang around and make you feel better?”

“Well, you’re in _my_ head,” he spat, “so yes, obviously I assumed that’s what you were here for.”

“And _when,”_ she scoffed, “in all of our numerous lives, have I ever brought you _comfort?”_

His fingers closed around her throat before he even realised he had stood up. “I’ve already booted one of your doppelgangers off the roof,” the Master hissed. “Care to join her?”

Unexpectedly, the Doctor’s mouth widened in a grin. “There we go. Not so tired now, are you? Come on, do what you do best: get blindingly furious and backstab someone out of spite.”

It was true, he realised: his anger gave him the energy he needed to fight back. The Cybermen weren’t compatible with emotions… and he had plenty of emotions to work with.

He released her and stepped back. “Oh, that’s clever. My subconscious is being _very_ clever today.”

“Are you sure?”

“Sure of what?”

“That it’s actually your subconscious.” She looked at him with a sly expression that he did not like _at all._ “How do you know that out there in the real world, the Doctor isn’t sitting there with you, whispering in your ear to _fight it?”_

Something—perception or imagination, he couldn’t tell which—overtook his senses: that tunnel-vision flash of himself on the floor of his TARDIS, and the echoing blur of her voice speaking the same words: _“fight it…”_

“She wouldn’t help me,” he said, despising how uncertain he sounded.

“Only one way to find out, isn’t there? Why don’t you wake up and wipe that smug look off of her face?”

He tried again: tried to force his way out of this mental prison—or possibly sanctuary—but the effort overwhelmed him and he nearly fell over. 

“Easy now.” The Doctor guided him over to one of the chairs around the table. “No time to be tired, Master. Still work to do out there: allies to betray, lives to ruin, bad coping mechanisms to devise…”

“Is this your idea of a motivational speech?” he asked drily.

“No, it’s a brainstorming session. Let’s go with a classic, shall we?” She swiveled his chair back around to face the table and jumped on top of it. “Consider the Master,” she began, making a sweeping arm gesture as though she was somehow emceeing this whole event. “The Master, trapped. The Master, alone. No TARDIS—because we’re in your mind. No friends—because you don’t have any. In other words: the Master as usual.”

He knew this patter: he’d taunted one of her pets this way, only that time it was about the Doctor, not him. “I see where you’re going with this.”

“Shush,” she scolded him, and then went back to addressing their imaginary audience. “Now, none of this is new for the Master: he’s been on the brink of disaster so often that he might as well get his mail forwarded there. One more ill-advised alliance, one more scheme for universal domination, one more bit of body horror—at least you’ve still got your skin this time.”

“At least I’m not _dead.”_

“Well, being dead would mean you could take a breather. Sort of. Metaphorically. But not this time, and that’s the problem.” The Doctor jumped off the table and paced around him. “Once the Cyberium takes over, your body will keep chugging along… your thoughts and memories will be added to its consciousness… but _you_ —the real you—will be gone.” She gave the back of his chair a push, which started it spinning. “Think about all the humans and Time Lords you’ve put through that conversion process. Do you think they knew what they had lost?”

“This is not the time to find out if I have the capacity for empathy.”

“True. The seconds are ticking away. The grains of sand in the hourglass are dwindling.” She spun the chair a little faster. “So: consider the Master. Surrounded. Outgunned. Cornered in his own mind. And… freeze.” She grabbed the arms of the chair to halt its motion. “Nanoseconds to live—four, if I’m being generous. Question: how does the Master survive?”

That was always the question, wasn’t it? He had always managed to survive. Even when he technically hadn’t—even when he literally _died—_ every single time, he always found _some_ way to survive.

So how would he survive _this_ time?

He felt a smile spread across his face. “The same way he always does.”

“Which is?”

“He cheats.”

“There you go!” She reached out a hand and helped him up. “All right, now it’s your turn to ask a question.”

There was something he’d missed… there was almost always _something_ he’d missed, which was how the Doctor usually ruined his plans: one part of the scheme would come together and then he would get too excited and overlook the unintended consequences of his victory.

So what was it _this_ time?

He considered his usual blind spots: the Doctor, that was the main one. She was extremely distracting and there were so many versions of her running around in his head at the moment—except that it wasn’t _her_ that the Master tended to overlook. It was whatever she distracted him _from:_ the details.

Something minor… insignificant… a little buzzing fly— _oh!_ “What happened to Percy Shelley?” he asked.

The gleam in her eyes implied that he was heading in the right direction. “Ooo, that _is_ a question, isn’t it? Did the Cyberium show you?”

“No, but it must have happened right before it fused with the Doctor. Odds are she nabbed the Cyberium in order to keep it from burning up Shelley’s tiny human mind, so she was probably hanging around nearby.”

“She does love celebrity gossip,” the Doctor sighed.

While he tried to work it out, the Master couldn’t help pacing back and forth—probably _her_ influence, he thought in annoyance. “I had to kill Ashad to get the Cyberium out of him, but the Doctor somehow extracted it from Shelley without killing him.”

“How do you know that she didn’t?”

“Kill him?” He laughed in disbelief. “Because he’s a mopey little poet who wrote a handful of verses so memorable that even _I_ quote them sometimes—”

“Just the other day, in fact.” She gestured at the devastation outside. _“_ _‘Look upon my work, Doctor, and despair!’”_

“—which means that the Web of Time would have been noticeably damaged if he died before his already untimely death.” He made another snort of derision. “Besides, it’s the _Doctor._ She’ll move the damn heavens to save those grubby flies.”

“The Cyberium left the Doctor without killing _her,_ though,” she pointed out, getting in his way.

He just kept walking, though slower than before, forcing her to back up with every step. “Ashad was right there and probably barked all sorts of threats until she released it.” He smirked as the Doctor bumped into the table in the center of the room. “He might have even given her a choke or two.”

“Don’t get excited,” she said drily, taking a seat on the table.

The Master sighed in frustration. “But I _can’t_ shove the Cyberium out of me like she did. It’s too entrenched now: fused itself to my brainstems and made itself at home—not that I blame it.”

She flicked him on the ear. “You can preen later. Go back to your original question: the Cyberium _did_ want to leave the Doctor but _didn’t_ want to leave Shelley. So how could she make the Cyberium leave a host unwillingly?”

“The Cyberium leaves a host when it thinks the host is about to die.” The pieces were falling into place… he could feel the answer coming together… 

“But you said that she didn’t kill Shelley.”

“When it _thinks_ the host is about to die.” Now he understood what had happened: “The Doctor pushed Percy Shelley’s mind forward in time to his future death and hoped that his body wouldn’t take it literally… she probably made an insufferable speech in the process, too.” It was a clever solution, he had to admit—not out loud, of course.

“Except you don’t know when you’re going to die,” the Doctor reminded him.

That was a bit of a snag: Shelley’s death was probably a fixed point in time. Meanwhile, his own death was more of a vague and easily-ignored insinuation.

“Well,” the Master said as the solution became regrettably clear, “only one way to make sure.”

The Doctor nodded, but she didn’t look especially happy about it. “If you want something done right…” she sighed. 

“Exactly.”

He always found a way to survive.

Even when he didn’t. 

“And no one breaks hearts better than you do.” Her expression was difficult to read, which was odd considering she was probably just a figment of his imagination.

“Time to break my own, then. Although,” he noted uneasily, “the Cyberium could have listened in on this whole scheme while I was devising it.”

“True, it might still have time to figure out a way to stop you in the nanoseconds you have left, but that’s the gamble you’ll have to take: can you think faster than a puddle of metal? Are you more clever than a bucket of wires and bolts?”

“Guess we’re about to find out.” He surveyed the ruins of Gallifrey one more time. “Any last words?”

The Doctor raised an eyebrow. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that?”

“Suit yourself. I’ve got just the one.” The Master walked to the gap in the glass, then turned around to face her. “Geronimo,” he said, spreading his arms wide.

And let himself fall backwards off the top of the Citadel.

He smiled as he plummeted to the ground below. 

_I win._

* * *

_Hearts stopped. Wait, no, there they go again: left one, then the right._

_That old drumbeat, the call to war…_

With two beating hearts, however, came sensation: more precisely, excruciating pain severe enough that his consciousness instinctively tried to avoid coming back.

The effect, therefore, was something that resembled a lucid dream. Awake but not awake, he saw the TARDIS control room as a series of desaturated and blurry images: _floor—console—shower of sparks—spatter of blood—gasp—gleam of chrome—clenched fist—_

 _(—alarm—fight it—alarm—fight it—alarm—)_

_Voice—synthetic—TARDIS—alarm:_ “Cyber intrusion detected. Initiating aurum compound dispersal.”

_Hiss—vents—aerosol—taste of gold—flash of silver—_

The Cyberium writhed, suspended in midair, obviously confused.

_(Fight it—triumph—time to brag—)_

_Rasping—pain—but his own voice—good sign:_ “Oops… no organic material to hide inside now. Maybe you’ll be able to slide under the door, or…” _Bared teeth—grin—laughter—_ “Maybe you’re about to become glitter.”

_Cough—blood again—fading—but victorious…_

* * *

When he woke up again, the Master was alone. Other than a silver smear on the floor of his TARDIS, there was no sign of the Cyberium.

His sigh of relief, however, quickly became a gasp of agony. He clutched at his chest, where his fingers encountered a surgical dressing taped down across his entire torso from his collarbone to the bottom of his ribcage. 

The Cyberium must have literally torn itself out of him in its panic to escape.

And then someone dressed the wound. The Master examined the tape: too tidy for him to have done it himself—not in the state he was in.

Or maybe not. Any TARDIS that was in use during wartime would have had a medical kit in the control room; in fact, the compartment that contained it was within arm’s reach of his current position.

And wasn’t he just saying that he always survived no matter what?

Sighing, he let himself sink back into the liminal space between his external and internal worlds. In the latter one, at least, he wasn’t alone.

“Well done,” the Doctor in his mind remarked. She was sitting beside him in the TARDIS—which, if not for her presence and the lack of a gaping wound in his chest, the Master would have assumed he was fully awake.

“Were you really there?” he asked.

“Did you want her to be?”

Instead of looking at her, he stared up at the ceiling. “I can’t decide.”

“If she _was_ there,” the Doctor mused, “then it would mean that she cared so much for you that she would go to your side even though you betrayed her. But it would also mean that you needed her to rescue you—yet again, everything you are would be because of her, and you can’t bear that.”

“Which is why she would have left before I woke up,” he pointed out.

“A convenient explanation. The thing you should _really_ worry about is if she saw inside your mind and learned that _this_ was one of your fantasies: a painfully dull life with the person you claim to despise on the planet you destroyed. Could you look her in the eye after that?”

He couldn’t even look _this_ version of the Doctor in the eye. 

After the silence had stretched on a little too long, she asked another question: “Is there anything in your life at this point that you don’t regret?”

“Leaving Gallifrey,” the Master answered immediately. “I don’t regret that.”

She leaned over him; it was impossible to avert his gaze now. “So why was your fantasy set on a version of Gallifrey that you _couldn’t_ leave?”

“I don’t know,” he lied.

“I do: it was the last place you ever felt safe.”

He shut his eyes. “Well, that’s depressing, isn’t it?”

“Is it?” she wondered. “You’ve got another chance now.”

“At what?”

“You cheated death yet again. What are you going to do next?”

He shrugged. “Something will come along. It usually does.”

“No sudden resolve to change your wicked ways, then?”

“No. I… I think it’s too late for that.” There was only one truly interesting person in the universe, and she would never forgive him. 

So he would have to be content with fantasies. “Could you stay?” he asked, opening his eyes. “Just for a little while.”

It was strange, looking at someone who wasn’t really there, especially since she was staring back at him with an expression he couldn’t decipher. How could he not understand someone who was just a figment of his imagination? Someone who was really just another voice in his head?

Wasn’t she?

“All right,” the Doctor said at last. “For a little while.”

She reached out and took one of his hands in hers.

“So what do you think of this TARDIS?” the Master asked.

“Bit drab.” She sounded unimpressed. “But it’s got potential.”

“Of course it’s got potential—it actually has a working chameleon circuit, unlike _some_ TARDISes I could name.”

“And yet you decided on a rundown cabin last time.”

“The windows were nice,” he remarked. “Maybe I’ll have some windows in this one too… once I’m done bleeding on the floor, of course.”

“Maybe start with a chair and work your way up from there,” the Doctor suggested.

“But first, a nap,” he sighed, shutting his eyes once more. “That's all I really want right now.”

If it had been the actual Doctor there with him, she’d have called him out on that lie. But she didn’t, and the Master drifted off to sleep before he could decide if he was disappointed or relieved.


End file.
